A Latte in Luz

Set back from the beach, The Bull in Luz is one of those cosy little pubs where the British expatriate crowd congregates on the Algarve.

Overheard:
'Of course there's an element of risk,' said the lady. Her voice was strident now. 'Getting an apartment in London, that would be financially sensible. I'd be able to let it out and get, what? £12,000 a year for it? That would be financially sensible. But who wants to be financially sensible their whole lives?'
Her dark-haired companion nodded gravely and said something in a low voice.
'I've got bonds maturing in the summer,' replied the other. 'Where are we? February? March, April, May, June, July... I could make it work.'

A pause, as they both sipped their coffee.

'London bores me,' said the lady after a while. 'People don't realise there are opportunities elsewhere. And anyway, I like the villa. I can see myself living in it.'
And I imagined a half-derelict thing, sitting in the dappled sunlight, perhaps with a little olive grove and view of the sea to make it all all right.
'I could let it out,' she reprised, 'but the trouble is, every couple would expect their own bathroom.'
A murmur from the dark-haired friend.
'Oh, but there's life in Vilamoura! Restaurants, a yacht club, casinos...!'
She made it sound like a mini Monte Carlo.
'It's not rustic life, but there's life there.'

And with that, I downed my own coffee, fished out the car keys and left them dreaming of the villa in the sun.